Abomination
by The Carnivorous Muffin
Summary: They can't help but see Alucard as a monster.
1. Abomination

As they see the blood dripping from his gloved hands and the maniacal grin crossing his face, they cry monster, freak, abomination. They point their guns in his face, squeezing the trigger for that final shot.

He hates the drips of sweat that roll down their chests, clinging to their skin; hates the shaking arms that can't aim at anything—not even his head, not even his heart. He finds humans laughably pathetic at times; he tells them, too. He tells them through his insane laughter _exactly _what he thinks of each and everyone of them.

He is a monster, a freak, a sin against God Himself. He doesn't feel pity, he doesn't feel remorse; confessionals are for the humans. Guilt is for those who don't know how to act, for those who are too afraid to wield a gun. That's why he lives—that's why he _always _wins. He knows that only a human can defeat a monster and that no true human can bear the sight of blood on their hands.

The point is not to die for one's country—he doesn't care about England. What is a patrioteer but a completely human invention, an entirely human term, that has no relevance? What is England but another dotted line on a map? (The lines have always confused him. The cop once tried to explain it, spouting human nonsense through her sharp teeth, reminding him once again that she had never stopped being human.)

He massacres them. He makes a slaughter house for them, a shrine to their dead carcasses, sucked dry to appease his constant thirst. He sends silver bullets sliding through the skulls because they stand in his way, because he enjoys it, because he can.

He once remarks to Integra on his theory that though he holds the gun and determines its aim, even though he puts the ammo through the slide and undoes the safety, it is not his will that slaughters the humans. It is hers—it's her iron resolve that sends those men to their graves. He refuses to be the murderer—homicide would imply that he is human, and he knows he isn't.

He wants her to realize this. He wants them all to know that he will never be their human plaything, that he has always and will always be the shapeless monster, their nightmare come to life. Sometimes he thinks they forget.

He hates fighting the fake vampires, the chipped replicas; they're still human. Beneath their lust and greed, they're still just pathetic humans looking for a thrill. It disgusts him, repulses him, the fact that these creations can exist—exist, and have the nerve to proclaim themselves a Class A vampire, one of the old kind, something truly terrifying. He wants them to know that they have no idea what they're dealing with. He wants them to be terrified of him in their last moments of life.

He wants them to stand up so he can shoot them in the knees and watch them crawl. He wants them to regenerate so he can recreate the _exact_ same injuries. He lets them shoot him first so he can watch their horror-stricken expressions as he rises from his grave, like a god, like a miracle, like the monster that he is.

It humors him to watch them stare out behind their stolen crimson eyes, terrified beyond their immortality. It satisfies him to hear their cries of denial as they continually refuse to believe that there is something out there that is more powerful than they could ever imagine. It annoys him to watch them crawl on their knees shouting freak at the top of their lungs. He wants to shoot them apart; he wants them to know that he is their death, their grim reaper holding a silver gun in his hands. He is not one to deny himself.

It gets harder, he notes with each mission, to feel the same ecstasy when he meets these imposters. The blood lust is longer coming as he stares down at them in disgust. They are garbage, they are scum; they aren't even fit to be called a human. He doesn't know what they are anymore. Instead, his anger grows as he watches them destroy mortals with a sloppy joy that makes even him sick; he watches them paint the blood of their victims on walls. The waste of it is revolting. Even the monster is retching.

He snaps, the anger and outrage builds from inside until he can take it no longer and has to act. The infestation of the immortal rats has grown to the point where he simply can't drag himself to act anymore—he wastes time, he walks slowly. He is both bored and disgusted with the garbage. He begins to wonder if they even go to Hell, for surely creatures such as them aren't even worthy of unending torture.

At first he sees it as a whim, nothing more, and nothing less. But he realizes soon enough what he had truly been trying to accomplish. Turning the cop into a vampire hadn't been an act of charity or even love. It was defiance. In the instant where he squeezed the trigger he saw his future, forever disposing of imposters—of scum, of garbage—yearning all the while for that chance where he could prove himself… and never getting it.

By offering her eternity, he was rebelling against the mundane future set out for him—he was adding one more genuine vampire into the world. Or so he had thought at the time, but the girl, he had found out slowly, is the farthest thing from a vampire that he could have created.

Despite the crimson eyes and the thirst for blood, the girl is no more a vampire than his own master. She does not drink the blood offered to her, choosing instead to flush it down the human contraptions, growing steadily weaker as she continually denies herself. He tells himself that it is only a matter of time before she has no choice but to take that final step away from her humanity.

It drains him, this realization of his own isolation. He is, without a doubt, the last of his kind; the vampires are a dying race, eroded away by the elements and the strain of immortality, left forgotten in ashes as the human race trample their bones underfoot. He doesn't bother telling Integra that immortality is an impossible concept. Just as humans rotting in their graves, his reign on this Earth will one day come to an end. Humans don't seem to grasp the concept of their own mortality in the first place; he wouldn't waste his time explaining his own predicament.

He finds himself growing weary as the days wear on, staring down at those pathetic shaking humans with their terrible aim. He watches as they take their gun and point it not at the demon standing before them, but at their own heads, squeezing that trigger one final time.

It produces the same end. The obstacle has been removed. The human is dead, slumped against a wall with his own bullet lodged in his skull, the corpse's dead eyes more accusatory than anything he could have said while living. In the glassy reflection, he sees a monster with blood dripping from his fingers, eyes glowing with rage.

If he is the monster, then what are his victims? Men? Dogs? Freaks? As he rips them limb from limb, does their nature change? Do they become exactly like him? Will his reflection in their eyes remain that of the hideously deformed monster if he tears their faces off?

The cop answers his question for him in two simple words.

"They're humans!" she shouts as she surveys his handiwork, her face transformed into another horror-stricken mask, mocking her own crimson eyes and pointed teeth through the painfully human expression.

He knows he has to kill them. That is war, that is the nature of the beast. He is a solider—nothing more nothing less. He holds the gun and determines its aim but he is not the force that kills them. He has to tear them apart and leave them to rot. It's the world's one and only truth.

No one can change—not him, not the cop, not God—not even the Devil can change such a fact.

And yet he still sees the terror-stricken tears in the cop's crimson eyes and he still sees the blood-drinking demon in his own reflection.

**AN: This one shot is based off of Order three, elevator action II, from volume three of the manga. XD, probably the only one-shot I'll ever do as I'm not a huge fan of them. Thanks to my beta, who edited. Without her, the run-on sentences would kill you. **


	2. Wonderland

Follow me through fear and darkness; follow me through your worst nightmares; follow me down the rabbit hole. Wonderland is a place of monsters and nightmares—there are no smoking caterpillars or Cheshire cats. Something much worse awaits in the land beyond the rabbit hole, as Seras well knows.

They leave her medical blood on the table in her room, and it sits, just waiting to be ripped open. She doesn't deny that it tempts her, that she craves it with all her being. She likes to say it is an effort of will that flushes each package down the toilet into oblivion.

She'd like to say that, but it would be a lie—it's some primary instinct that drives her, the survival instinct that let her shoot her own men and live with it. Seras was born to outlast her enemies, and her human portion, the survivor, refuses to be blotted out by the new bloodlust that consumes her.

She is torn between the monster she is becoming and the human she pretends to be. She claims sometimes to forget to sleep in a coffin, or to forget that she can't touch silver, or to forget that going to church on Sundays like a good little Protestant might be a bad idea. She's always been a bad liar; she knows this, her master knows this.

He's always been there, watching over her shoulder, his yellow glasses gleaming, his mouth stretched into a sadistic grin, laughing. He always seems to be laughing, making a point to be amused. Seras tells herself not to care, that it shouldn't matter, that she is fighting the inevitable—because when it comes to a fight, her master always wins.

To him she is simply cop, police girl, the little girl wielding a gun far too large and lethal for her. To her he is master, the dark force that commands her, the will behind the gun she shoots. But that is not reality; that is merely what they choose to believe. Reality tells them that she and him are one in the same. They are fighters, creatures willing to sacrifice—even to shoot their own men—to ensure their own survival. They are the victors because they know and realize that in order to live, sacrifices must be made. That, after all, is why she still exists, why she is still shooting away at the undead with gleaming silver bullets.

She knows this and Alucard himself knows this, but they will never admit it. She finds they both prefer to stay in their assigned roles. Her—the servant, the cop; him—the master, the monster. It is easiest that way, less painful. Sometimes events try to shake these positions, try to move them. The fates like to play tricks on them; they like to see what makes them tick.

She remembers carrying his severed head through the dark, unfamiliar halls, attempting to out-limp her death. She wonders if they think this is funny, if those higher powers consult on their long wooden table, devising the world's future, snipping away at the woolen threads one at a time until one of them smiles and says, "Let's see what our old friend Alucard is doing."

They take him apart piece by piece, limb by limb, and watch him grow back in cruel fascination. She imagines their dark eyes hidden behind thick-rimmed glasses, fixed in fascination as they watch the dead come to life. They, the cruel old men in expensive suits who plan the doom of the world in an expensively furnished room.

Wonderland is full of illusions; it consists of one-way mirrors and dead ends. The blood-sucking demons aren't the evil nightmares she imagined—the true evil comes from the powers controlling them. The term 'human' doesn't mean much to Seras anymore; it's just a word in a dictionary.

At first, she likes to think that she is keeping the human portion of her alive by refusing to drink the blood, that if she gives into temptation she will lose something vital. It is only now that she realizes the human portion of her never mattered; it was destined to destroy itself in the end. By denying herself she becomes better than her enemies—she becomes better than the monsters she fights to destroy, she becomes better than her masters.

Her master thinks she is weak, that her starvation is just a way to commit suicide, that she can't deal with the path she chose. He tells her once that she had chosen to forsake the light that day—that she had chosen to wander as a condemned monster in the shadows of death and fear.

He holds out his gloved white hand in the dark room and asks her if she dares to follow him, if she dares to see what the world is really like. He dares her to follow him down the rabbit hole where wonderland awaits, where the card soldiers wield their guns and bare their teeth—he dares her to follow him to a place where the rot of corpses is so common that a creature ceases to smell it; a place where blood soaks her clothes and sticks to her pale skin, never seeming to wash out.

She sometimes wonders if, like Alice or Dorothy, Hellsing is nothing but a dream comprised of a bumped head or sheer exhaustion. Even as she takes his hand and follows him through darkened hallways, she believes she is dreaming, and that one day she will wake up to bright sunshine and blue skies. In the meantime, she survives, and kills when she has to.

Murder isn't exclusive to vampires. Humans have been known to dabble in it as well.

**Author's note: I told you I don't do one shots, this is now more of a… drabble? Thanks to my beta, who edited. (Beta: Revolutionary concept. Beta. Editing. Beta. Editing. Pah. I'm a genius.)**


	3. False Pretenses

Integra Hellsing leans upon the railing of the balcony staring out at the yellow moon with a vampire at her side. She stands smoking a cigar watching as the smoke curls into the wind and into the impenetrable night.

This is how they will find her, more or less, only the details will change but she remains the same.

They aren't watching for the details however, they only see the vampire in the red duster, the vampire with the yellow glasses and a smile like War. They see only death standing beside his mistress, they have no time for mortality, and thus they miss the finer aspects.

It's not their fault; it's to be expected after all, they all have underestimated her more or less. They see only the sword; the blinders they wear prevent them from seeing the arm that holds it. Thus Integra Hellsing and her vampire remain an enigma for the governments of the world to solve, eventually they attribute it to power, a weak organization that stands upon the shoulders of a vampire.

They have yet to notice that the blood soaks her gloves as well.

They call him Atlas but they have never thought to look her in the eye until it is too late and she is holding the gun against their head.

She calls him Alucard as if he were her friend, they laugh at this knowing that he would eat her alive if given half the chance, and yet their laughter is unintentionally nervous as they notice her self-aware smile. She orders about a creature of the night as if he were human, what an inconceivably foolish thing this is to do, and yet they each copy her in their turn and fail.

All their angels of death have fallen before them, Anderson, Walter, each has fallen in his own turn and their masters are left only with the dark horror of knowing that she succeeds where they had failed.

They reevaluate, they check their calculations, and the horror dawns upon them that the vampire has yet to move against her and that they are dying under her gun. It is that moment that they truly see her, leaning against the balcony, a cigar in her gloved hands. It is in that moment they see her self-assured smile.

It is at that point that they remember once, when she was a child, before they knew her she had run from the world of the humans into the arms of the monster. It is as if their world has been flipped and suddenly the vampire pales in comparison to his master.

The vampire turns and smiles at them then, as if to say "I told you so." But they aren't listening to his words now; they only have eyes for the mind behind the sword, for the death in her cold blue eyes.

She doesn't have eyes for them though, she had dismissed them long ago as useless, Integra has no pity for her enemies and they are beginning to understand that. She is a woman whose only friends remain among the dead and the living only serve to pester her.

They missed the finer details of the picture; after all they never noticed the look of admiration and devotion in the vampire's eyes.

So look again, watch the cinders of her cigar falling onto the stonework below, see the way she leans casually against the railing looking out at the moon with a masked expression, look at the way the vampire regards her through yellow glasses and see what you missed the first time.

Reassess the situation, and always remember that abomination is a relative term.

**Author's Note: I felt like Integra needed a mini-drabble. Maybe Walter is next, who knows? Reviews would be nice. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hellsing. **


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